


cheating at chess

by orphan_account



Series: checkmate [1]
Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, also post-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:37:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9471656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "A bad dream? Oh dear. Want to tell me about it?"“Yes. I dreamed that I’d been taken from my parents and locked up in a facility in a country miles away from home with nobody who cares and no chess to play.”-A look at Dirk's life as Svlad in his early days with the CIA.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline for this is Dirk being born in 1982, taken from home in 1992 (age 10), and released at 18, in 2000.

In the early days, he misses home all the time.

The room in which They have contained Svlad is fairly sizeable, but it is empty and cold; a total contrast to what he knows. In England, his bedroom had not been big, per se, but it was _home_. In England, the walls were papered with posters, the floor littered with various stuffed animals and storybooks, the occasional stray chess piece. He had liked to play chess; he was good at it, somehow able to predict his opponent’s next move and act accordingly. He wonders if maybe he was cheating, but rationalises; he’d never done it on purpose. It just… happened. Besides, winning felt good - it made his mother gush over what a _clever boy_ he was, and his father look at him – _really_ look, not just the occasional glance up from the newspaper - in quiet contemplation, a small, interested smile playing on his lips.

In the early days, childish naivety makes him wonder if accidental cheating at chess is why he was sent away.

It’s around then that he attaches himself to Riggins, the only stable, somewhat caring figure in a blur of lab coats and clipboards. Svlad did not like Riggins, but he clings to the man all the same. In return, the agent seems to take a special interest in Svlad’s case, looking upon him as the child he is, not the test subject he was labelled as. Not once does he call Svlad “Icarus”, like the rest. Not yet.

Riggins comes by every few days, bringing a book or some toys. In return Svlad tries his best to be polite and civil to the man, though he doesn’t say much, words left behind in the family home he longs for.

So it is no surprise that when, as children are wont to do, Svlad misbehaves, Riggins is the one They call in.  

A sensitive child from an early age, Svlad does not settle into the new environment with ease. He cries himself sick on the first day, and even after two weeks, he still sobs himself to sleep each night.

This evening is no exception. It is unusual, however, in that he is not simply left to cry it out.

“Svlad?”

The door to the room opens with a grinding noise that sets the child’s teeth on edge. Svlad tenses, tugging the blanket around himself more firmly, and biting on his pillow in a futile attempt to muffle his sobs.

“Svlad, it’s me. It’s Colonel Riggins. Scott.”

Svlad considers the options, and slowly, gradually unfurls, sitting up in the bed and doing his best to stop his lip from quivering. “Hello.”

The Colonel makes his way closer. “Can I sit?” A nod. “Thank you.” He sits on the corner of the bed – Svlad feels the mattress dip with the man’s weight -, but refrains from getting any closer, not entering Svlad’s space any more than necessary. “What’s the matter? Bad dream?”

“Yes.”

Riggins gives a sympathetic smile. It doesn’t even seem like a façade; for a moment Svlad feels like somebody really cares. “Oh dear. Want to tell me what it’s about?”

There is a moment of silence, save from the various sounds of the other Blackwing subjects in rooms – cells – along the corridor. Svlad lifts his gaze to lock eyes with Riggins for the first time. He feels brave.

“I dreamed that I’d been taken from my parents and locked up in a facility in a country miles away from home with nobody who cares and no chess to play.”

Riggins is frozen, unsure how to react. Instinctively, he can’t help but feel irritated with the answering back, as though he should enact some kind of discipline. But then, it’s the longest sentence the child has said since his arrival, and in the circumstances, his wit is admirable. There is a small feeling of paternal pride mixed in there, too.

“Well then.”

“Yes.”

Svlad maintains eye contact for a good ten seconds, before losing his nerve and returning his gaze to the rough grey blanket across his knees. He rubs his fingers against the fabric in the quiet, brow furrowing at the scratchy wool. It’s not like home. At home, his blankets were woollen, too, but handknitted by doting grandmothers in an array of colours. Not like this. There is no love sewn into this quilt. Holding it close brings no memories of Christmases and birthdays, just an uncomfortable iciness he can’t shake.

Against his will, Svlad feels tears prick at his eyes once more. He’s aware of Riggins’ eyes on him, and turns away, sniffing pathetically.

“Svlad…” He reaches out, and rests his large hand on the boy’s thin shoulder, guilt rising like bile in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Wanna go home.”

Svlad is their youngest subject. Riggins makes a mental note that ten is the youngest they can go; deep down, he feels horrendous that they have a child here in the first place.

There is nothing he can say to fix this. So he doesn’t. Just keeps his hand on Svlad’s shoulder, a pale imitation of the hug he’s not allowed to give.

* * *

When Svlad wakes the next day, there is a box at the foot of his bed. It falls off when Svlad fidgets in the early morning light, making a concerning rattling sound as it hits the floor. He rises with a frown – gifts are not customary in this place – and picks it up. For a while he just looks at it – is this a punishment for giving Riggins cheek? Is this going to be the bones of a childhood pet to remind him of things he could lose? – but soon, his suspicion is overridden by childish curiosity, and he opens the box.

A number of chess pieces fall into his lap, varnish worn and paint peeling.

Svlad gives the box a closer look and finds that, on the inside of the lid, a crude chessboard has been drawn, apparently with crayon. There is a note, amongst the pieces, in a surprisingly neat cursive.

_Now you have chess to play, and someone who cares. I hope this makes it less of a bad dream. – ~~Col. Ri~~ Scott._

* * *

“Hey, what’s this?”

They’re in the process of moving all of Todd’s things into Dirk’s flat. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that his boyfriend is as nosy as Dirk himself. He turns from the box of records Todd insists they must display, to see the smaller man holding an old shoebox in his arms, looking at it with a frown.

“Are these chess pieces? They’re really old- There’s no board either… Can I throw them away…?”

A flash of hurt crosses Dirk’s face, and his chest feels uncomfortably tight as he pads across the room. “The box lid is the board. It- It was a gift.”

Todd senses he’s said something wrong. “Oh shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean- I just know you have a nicer set, the glass one from Farah. Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Dirk takes the box with a small smile, sitting on the couch with it in his lap. “I… should probably throw it away. It’s from Blackwing. Sort of.”

Todd’s mouth twists at the name. “Oh.”

“Well. Not really. It’s- It’s a long story I’d rather not tell now.” Dirk is ashamed at the waver in his voice, and from the expression on Todd’s face, the other man is just as uncomfortable with this discussion.

“Okay,” Todd murmurs, before gently resting a hand on Dirk’s shoulder. “Another time, perhaps.”

Dirk raises his own hand to rest atop Todd’s. “Another time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Available to screech about this fantastic detective on [my tumblr](http://hippocampers.tumblr.com). Love to all <3


End file.
